


Holding On

by SophBee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Holding Hands, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophBee/pseuds/SophBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case proves to be too much for John, and Sherlock proves to be very caring indeed.</p>
<p>Or, the one in which there is a lot of fluff and holding hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

The first time John notices, they're at a crime scene. Someone's dead on the ground, Sherlock has worked it out in barely 10 minutes, and the case has been deemed boring and fairly obvious.

"Drug addict, he shows all the signs. Completely out of his mind, wandering the streets, tripped on that uneven manhole cover judging by the scuff marks on the toe of his left shoe, and hit his head a little too hard on the ground - which is obvious by the imprints of small stones and grit on his forehead as well as the injury which I'm sure any one of you could have noticed. Not a murder, just idiocy. Goodnight."

With that, Sherlock turned tail and made to leave, stopped only by John gripping his sleeve. "Not so fast, remember?" Ah yes. John had received a fairly painful blow to the knee in a pursuit 3 days ago, and as such was struggling to keep up at the usual rate. Sherlock stilled his movements at once, letting John hobble on as he followed close behind at a more reasonable pace.

It was when John misjudged a step and his knee gave slightly, momentarily throwing him off balance, that Sherlock's arm shot forward to steady his friend, hand never quite making contact with John's body. The arm seemed to freeze in midair, long fingers curling in to pale palm as though they had recognised their mistake. Not that it had been a mistake, but Sherlock's body seemed to register the gesture as such.

 

It was after a few such incidents when Sherlock had made some sort of movement to initiate contact between himself and John, that it became apparent that Sherlock had some sort of mental barrier preventing him from doing so; which came as a surprise to John, as Sherlock didn't seem to have any mental barriers in any other aspect of life. He took it upon himself to break the barrier down, even just a little.

He began with small, fleeting gestures. A light squeeze of Sherlock's shoulder when setting a cup of tea by his chair, or a lingering touch to the arm when getting the detective's attention. It wasn't long before John risked leaning his shoulder against Sherlock's as they sat side by side on the sofa, watching a film that John had never heard of and understood very little of. He felt Sherlock stiffen next to him, but then gradually the tension eased out of his lanky body as he leant into the contact. John was elated; he was winning.

It was easy from there. It was as easy as breathing to wrap an arm around Sherlock's back when reading the paper over his shoulder. There was nothing more natural than Sherlock's long fingers around John's wrist as he excitedly explained some incredibly detailed murder plot. If anyone noticed a shift in the flatmates' dynamic, they were kind enough to keep quiet about it. Nothing was all that different anyway; John had just coaxed Sherlock out of his old habits and built new ones. And if the new habits also happened to make John very happy, then what of it? They both needed some affection and comfort somewhere, so why not find that in each other?

 

It was after a particularly harrowing case that it became clear just how much more comfortable Sherlock had become around John, and how much he cared about him. John was a man of steel, usually, but he hadn't slept well the night before and was feeling a bit tender. The crime scene was brutal; blood everywhere, 3 bodies with their brains blown out. As soon as he laid eyes on the scene, his mind was transported back to Afghanistan and the horrors he had witnessed. It didn't haunt him much now, but when it did it hit hard.

"Well, what do you think of it John?" Sherlock's question fell on deaf ears as John concentrated very hard on not shaking or maybe even projecting his breakfast onto the damp tarmac at his feet.

"John?"

"Mhm."

"What do you think?"

John took a deep breath to steady himself, but immediately regretted his decision as the putrid scent of death washed over him. Not good, not good. "I think I might sit this one out, something I ate must be disagreeing with me."

There was a flash of concern in Sherlock's expression, which melted into a furrowed brow and confusion. "We ate the same thing for breakfast."

"Must be coming down with something then," John quickly covered. "I'll head back home and rest a bit, you can take your time here."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely!" John was eager to get himself as far away from the scene as possible and as quickly as possible. He knew Sherlock could tell, from the way he was looking at John, face seemingly impassive but something tugging at his eyes that looked very like realisation.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock tilted his head towards the detective inspector, keeping his eyes fixed on John. "I'll text you what I've worked out, I've got to go."

"No, Sherlock-"

"What?! You're not solving it?" Greg wasn't impressed.

"I will, I will," Sherlock dismissed, already moving away from the crime scene towards John. "I don't need to be here to solve it, now that I've seen everything. Good day." With that, he took John by the elbow and steered him away, towards the nearest main road.

"Sherlock, you don't have to-"

"You're not coming down with anything." The tone was questioning, not accusatory.

"No," John admitted after a moment, grimacing.

"You didn't like what you saw at the crime scene. Hit a little too close to home."

"That's about right, yeah."

They had managed to hail a cab, and settled themselves in it, Sherlock giving their address to the driver. No words were exchanged for several minutes, before Sherlock broke the silence gently.

"Tell me."

"It was- there was just so much. Blood and bodies everywhere. I've seen too much of that, of people I called my friends being blown to bits with no warning. Those people, lying there in that street, have friends and families too, and they're going to have to be told that those people have been murdered." The words tumbled from John's mouth unfiltered. He didn't realise he was shaking until Sherlock stilled his movements with a gentle touch.

"You should have told me, when we arrived."

John shook his head slowly. "Thought I'd be alright. Turns out I was wrong." The huff of laughter held a sharp edge. Slowly, Sherlock prised open John's clenched fist, slipping his fingers between those of his friend. He didn't say anything, for he didn't know what he could say, but he held on until they reached home, giving John's hand a soft squeeze at intervals of the journey. A warmth spread directly from their connected hands to John's heart, as he focused his gaze on the point where Sherlock's thumb crossed over his own, and concentrated only on the warmth of his skin. By the time they reached Baker Street, he had managed to block out most of the images that had bombarded him that morning.

John gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze before slipping his hand out of the tight grasp, throwing a soft smile in Sherlock's direction before moving to leave the cab. Sherlock gave no response, merely paid the cabbie and clambered out after John.

 

The remainder of the day was fairly uneventful. Sherlock texted Lestrade everything he had worked out about the crime scene, and what information needed to be found to solve the case. John pottered about the flat, watching bad television shows and flicking through a newspaper to pass the time. Hours passed quickly, and not once did Sherlock complain about being bored, now that he couldn't do anything more about the case. In fact, John was fairly certain that his flatmate was keeping a close eye on him, constantly gauging how he might be feeling after the morning's ordeal, so when Sherlock started to pace as night fell, John beckoned him to stop.

"Sherlock, come sit down and relax a bit, nothing's wrong."

This stopped Sherlock in his tracks, and he flung himself onto the sofa next to John, pressed shoulder to shoulder so he could look at the newspaper in John's hands. "No, something is wrong. I should have known better than to bring you to that crime scene, Lestrade even warned me that it was a gruesome one this morning."

"You couldn't have known that I'd react like that, though."

"Couldn't I have? Don't I know you well enough by now?" Sherlock sat back a little, looking at John appraisingly, as though trying to find something new or unexpected in his appearance.

"Oh, you certainly know me well, but there was no way that'd I'd have even known what was going to happen in my own head, never mind you knowing for me."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "I apologise nonetheless. Won't happen again." He felt John tense next to him. "I'm still taking you to crime scenes, don't worry about that. We'll just avoid the overly gruesome ones." John relaxed again as he huffed out a laugh.

"Well that's alright then. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I didn't have all those cases taking up my time."

 

All was well until the night, when John woke up in a sweat with a cry caught in his throat. The bloody corpses flashed at the front of his mind, but this time they were people he knew. Old army friends. His parents. Sherlock.

"Sher... Sherlock-" John's voice was hoarse and weak, evidence he had been crying out in his sleep. Where was Sherlock?

"John? What's wrong?" Sherlock appeared in the doorway, light from the hallway silhouetting him in the frame.

"Oh Sherlock, you're alive, thank goodness, Sherlock..." John could hear his own voice break with relief. Just a nightmare.

"John, of course I'm alive, what happened?" Sherlock had moved closer in an effort to get a better look at John, who was visibly shaken.

"It was just a bad dream. You were one of the people, blown to bits... I was so sure you were dead when I woke up."

"Well, here I am," Sherlock supplied, closing the distance between himself and the bed, kneeling next to John and resting a hand on his heaving shoulder. "It's all okay, I'm fine and very much not dead, alright?"

The nod was shaky, but it was something. Sherlock sat for a few minutes, rubbing his hand back and forth over John's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting motion. Once John seemed to have returned to a calmer state, Sherlock withdrew his hand and made to move off the bed, but was stopped by a tight grasp on his wrist.

"Don't you dare. You're staying right here where I can see you and know that you're okay. I don't care if you have more important things to do than sleep. Please, stay." What started off as a stern order quickly dissolved into a desperate plea. Sherlock was bewildered.

"Of course. I wasn't going to leave you, John." Weary eyes looked up, questioning yet hopeful. "Waking up alone from a nightmare is often worse than the nightmare itself, and I'm not letting you go through that tonight. Or ever, if I can help it. Now move over and let me in, it's cold."

John willingly obliged, laying back down while leaving a Sherlock sized space next to him. The space was quickly filled by a warm, lanky body, and at once John felt more at ease. He began to drift off to sleep once more, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock was alive and breathing next to him. Just before sleep could take him, there was a sudden flash of panic, but a quick grapple for Sherlock's wrist told John that his friend still had a pulse and was breathing and well.

Sherlock, still awake and silently listening to John's breathing patterns, felt the fingers on his wrist and rolled onto his side to face John. "I'm fine," he assured, tucking long fingers around shorter ones. "Nothing is going to happen to me tonight. You can't get rid of me that easily, Doctor Watson!"

Despite himself, a small smile broke across John's face as he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand, a thumb gently rubbing against his own. "Thank heavens for that."


End file.
